


Safe as Houses

by nightbloomingcereus



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Humor, House Hunting, M/M, POV Outsider, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22538509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightbloomingcereus/pseuds/nightbloomingcereus
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley go shopping for real estate.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 56
Kudos: 423
Collections: Outsider Views of Good Omens





	Safe as Houses

Nicola Rose has seen a lot of things in her nearly twenty years as an estate agent in London. A townhouse where the master bathroom had transparent walls, an entire flat painted in broad black and white circus stripes, a tiny bedsit where the shower folded out over the kitchen sink and the toilet was next to the refrigerator. (All of the above were in extremely desirable locations, and went for prices that anyone who wasn't intimately familiar with the London housing market would have been horrified by.) Her clients are often just as strange. Because she deals in unique and luxury properties, she gets her fair share of Russian oligarchs, shady businessmen buying pieds-a-terre in ritzy neighborhoods for their mistresses, and insufferable trust fund babies with their own entourages who insist on stopping every five seconds to take fifteen nearly identical selfies for their Instagram feed.

Her newest clients, a Mister Anthony J. Crowley and Mister Ezra Fell, however, might just take the cake. 

They’re a charming, early-middle-aged gay couple, at first glance quite mismatched. They are clearly quite well to do: the fact that they’ve not given her a budget and do not seem at all worried about financing this purchase attests to that. But more than that, Crowley’s sharp, red-slashed, black blazer is either genuine McQueen or a very, very good knockoff , and his boots appear to be snakeskin. And then of course there’s the fancy sunglasses, Valentino if she's not mistaken, which she's never once seen him take off. Along with the unreasonably tight jeans, it’s a bit of a flashy look, especially for someone who appears to be in his forties or fifties, but she has to admit it suits him. He has the strangest way of walking she's ever seen – it's simultaneously awkward and graceful, like he has either too many joints or not enough of them. She'd call it a _swagger_ but that suggests self-consciousness, whereas this is something much more intrinsic; a _saunter,_ perhaps. He’s listed his occupation on the initial paperwork as "independent consultant". She wonders what in the world he consults on, but decides she'd rather not know. She also wonders how ones gets so far up in the consulting world when one has a bloody face tattoo, but, again, discretion and self-preservation tell her that she's better off not asking.

His partner, Ezra Fell, is dressed in an old-fashioned ensemble of velvet waistcoat, a cream-colored jacket, and an expertly hand-tied bow tie in a tartan she doesn’t recognize. The waistcoat looks quite worn, but in a much-loved way and not an _I can’t afford new clothes_ way. The whole get-up could just be a hipster or intellectual affectation, but he projects an air of genuine sincerity that she finds hard to question. (Crowley does too, although this is yet another thing that she knows not to mention to him.) He wears a gold pocket watch and a heavy, expensive looking signet ring on his right pinky. His hands themselves are clearly manicured and well taken care of.

Ezra Fell is the proprietor and owner of an antique bookshop in Soho. The records are a little unclear, but the building appears to have been in his family for over two hundred years. It occupies a corner lot on a very desirable street; real estate in London being what it is, he can’t be poor on the basis of that alone. On the other hand, she’s done her due diligence and googled A. Z. Fell and Co., and found a slew of reviews mostly complaining that the shop is never open when it should be, or that it is dusty and poorly lit and organized in a completely unintelligible way, or that it's impossible to actually purchase a book there. There's even one alarming report of a large snake slithering around the store, but the reviewer is most likely just a troll. The store itself seems to have zero internet presence, nor does Ezra Fell; somehow, this is not at all surprising.

Both of them have perfect hair, the kind that Renaissance painters would swoon over. It’s really quite unfair. Either they have the best hairstylists in all of London, or they’ve both won the genetic lottery, or it's just magic. Crowley’s is flame-red, a color so striking that she thinks it must come from a bottle, except that it also suits him so perfectly that she thinks he must have been born with it. It is somehow styled into a dramatic swoop, defying both gravity and the persistently damp British weather, without looking like it has a drop of product in it. Ezra’s hair is equally incongruous and perfect, a blond so pale it’s like a halo of spun white gold, soft cherubic curls framing his face. She doubts that either of them has ever had a bad hair day in his entire life. 

She’s beginning to think that “independent consultant” and “antique bookshop owner” are code for Mafia and MI5. Something with a vast network of informants, covert operations masquerading as used bookshops, and really good hairstylists, to be sure. 

They seem to be almost uncannily in sync, like they’ve spent years becoming familiar with the movements and habits of one another. It’s odd because outwardly they’re so different, Crowley all lines and angles and slouch, Ezra all softness and curves and proper, straight-spined posture. Yet they walk in sync, they finish each other’s sentences, they know without words when the other needs them. They seem to be history buffs, constantly talking about this thing that happened during the French Revolution and that other thing that happened during Caligula's reign in Ancient Rome. The way they talk, it almost sounds like they were there, although that is a ridiculous notion, of course.

In any case, it’s clear that they’ve known each other for years, reminiscing about old times and casting unbearably fond looks at each other and casually touching all the time. Their conversation is peppered with so many inside jokes that it seems like another language at times. It is in fact sometimes literally another language - Ezra had once sheepishly admitted that they’d been conversing in Sumerian of all things. Which as far as Nicola can recall from her long-ago ancient history courses in uni has been a dead language for over four thousand years.

They’ve only been together for a year or so, she is surprised to learn, but have been friends, best friends even, for ages and ages (in their own words). She doesn’t see wedding rings, but she’s not one to judge. Besides, buying a home together, especially in this market, is anyway a much bigger commitment than marriage these days. They’ve been living together in Ezra’s flat in Soho, which is above his shop, but frankly it’s a bit small for two, plus they’d like to have a place in the country, away from the noise and bustle of the city. They’ve had their fill of excitement recently, they tell her, and just want to settle down somewhere quiet. 

"We've both been feeling rather burned out," says Ezra. Next to him, Crowley winces. 

"Perhaps I should rephrase… we work for opposite sides, you see, and have for a long time, and –"

Crowley cuts him off. "What he means is, shit hit the fan. World almost ended. We don't work for them anymore, although getting out of our contracts took a bit of doing."

Holy shit. Her silly pet theory about the Mafia and MI5 might be closer to the truth that she'd thought.

But! They’ve told her that budget isn't a concern, they’ve promised that it’ll be a cash sale (and a quick one at that), and they’ll waive all inspections. Which is the holy trinity in real estate, shady occupations or not. Besides, they're far, far less sleazy than the Russian oligarchs and the adulterous bankers. 

"Will you be selling your bookshop, then?" she asks Ezra, trying not to sound too hopeful.

"No!" says Ezra, rather loudly. Coming from him, it might as well be a shriek. "No, of course not. I'll just be cutting down on my opening hours[1]." 

Their meeting concludes with, as usual, the signing of various contracts, disclaimers, and other legal documents.

“Paperwork,” huffs Ezra. “I should have known. Is the real estate business one of yours or one of ours?” he asks Crowley curiously. 

“The whole business, angel? Who knows? The London market? One hundred percent ours.”

 _Definitely_ something shady about these two. But they're also adorable and obviously very much in love, so she decides that she likes them anyway.

***

The first house is a modern architectural marvel, all cantilevered glass and crisp, soaring angles; it's been decorated in white and silver, with sleek, minimalist furniture that is beautiful to look at and almost certainly uncomfortable to actually use. There are tall, white-framed floor-to-ceiling windows in every room, which reveal a stunning view for miles around of the surrounding landscape. The gleaming, futuristic structure appears to be emerging out of a hillside, defying gravity and foundationed on nothing but air and light. It's stylish and sleek, like Crowley, all angles and sharp edges, but lofty and full of light, which she thinks might suit Ezra.

“Well, this is rather...heavenly, isn’t it?” comments Ezra drily. It almost sounds like there's a little bit of a shudder in his voice. She figures the trepidation must be due to the frankly exorbitant price tag on this place. Architectural genius does not come cheaply.

“It’s quite...cold,” he adds. The tone of his voice as he says that makes her think that maybe he's not talking about temperature. 

“Might be nice on clear nights to see the stars out here,” is all his companion says, mildly. She doesn’t miss how he draws closer and reaches out a hand to grasp Ezra’s though, a comforting, wordless gesture that makes clear that they’ve known each other for a long time. 

One of the marvels of this house is how the living room, which is cleverly cantilevered out without any visible vertical supports, appears to float some ten feet above the ground. The furniture is carefully arranged around a large panel of clear glass built directly into the floor of the room, so that the occupants have a fantastical view of the meadow below. It never ceases to amaze everyone to whom she’s shown this house, although it's also elicited more than a few overly-clever comments about glass houses. Ezra seems duly impressed, saying to Crowley, "Humans are so ingenious, aren't they, my dear?"

Crowley’s reaction, however, is unique. He gazes down, through the transparent floor to the softly waving grasses below, then cringes slightly, steps back quickly, and turns away, reaching out blindly for his partner. She wonders if perhaps he gets motion sickness; a stiff breeze can make the long, uncut grasses wave in an almost oceanic manner, which most people find hypnotic and fascinating, but a few unlucky souls are taken in by the illusion so far as to get seasick. Ezra enfolds him in his arms, presses a kiss into his hair, and murmurs, “You’re all right, dearest. You’re here with me. You’re not falling. _You're not falling._ I have you, my love.”

“All this light. It’d be terrible for the books,” says Ezra in a voice that brooks no argument, looking up at her from over Crowley's bowed head pressed against his neck, and that’s that. There are storm clouds in his eyes. She doesn't know what color they are. “Perhaps something a little less modern next time, dear? Something with a bit more history.”

***

The second house is a somewhat crumbling Victorian mansion. It’s ornate, with elaborate woodwork and a wraparound porch, and is just slightly dilapidated. A fallen roof tile here, an overgrown hedge there. It’s also rather gothic, with swooping turrets, pointed gables, and rickety spiral staircases, and might possibly be just a little bit haunted. She thinks Ezra would be right at home here with his pocket watches and bow ties and anachronistic style. He seems the type to appreciate the way a bit of wear and tear adds character to places like this. And although Crowley is clearly very much attuned to current trends, she can somehow also picture him in Victorian garb, sporting a long tailcoat, top hat, and cane, the two of them alighting from a carriage in front of a house very much like this one.

She tells them the house dates to the mid-nineteenth century. Crowley yawns, and says offhandedly, “slept through most of that one, I did.” She assumes he means a history class or something.

There are mice living here, as there are in all old Victorian mansions. She knows it and the owner knows it, but they try their hardest to make sure potential buyers don’t. But somehow these clients know. 

“But Crowley! What if they nibble on the books?!”

“If they nibble on even sssso much as one corner of one page, angel, I’ll nibble on them!” 

Did he just flick his tongue out and lick his lips? That’s a little disconcerting. 

"Crowley!"

"I'm kidding, angel. Mice are just like rats, but smaller. We have an understanding. Why do you think that bookshop of yours has never had any rodent problems? Satan knows you leave enough biscuits and cups of cocoa lying around. So don't worry about it."

"Oh, that's all right then," says Aziraphale, sounding relieved and completely unconcerned that his partner might have just invoked the name of the Devil.

“Now flies on the other hand...” They both shudder. 

This crumbling Victorian mansion also has a creepy Victorian basement, complete with damp stone walls and dark alcoves. There may or may not be ghosts or vampires. There are definitely spiders. They descend down a somewhat suspect set of old wooden stairs. The steps don’t creak when Ezra goes down them, but creak twice as loudly when Crowley does. This is odd, because Ezra is clearly the heavier of the two. It's dark and musty and they have to scrabble around to find the switch for the single dim, bare bulb hanging from the low ceiling; when they finally turn it on, it illuminates a profusion of cobwebs and some forgotten old furniture covered in dusty sheets. Crowley does not remove his sunglasses even in this windowless, dark basement. He can't possibly see much with them on, but he still manages to navigate perfectly well, without bumping into or tripping on anything; it's patently unfair, in fact, that he seems to be rambling around the basement far more easily than she herself is in her high heeled pumps. 

"Ah, Victorian dust. You should feel right at home here, angel."

"Oh, hush, dear. There are no books down here, sadly."

The basement is, predictably, gloomy and damp and smells faintly of mildew. It’s in decent condition for what it is, though, no flooding or corroded pipes or missing bits of foundation. She makes sure to point this out, although they seem frankly unconcerned, possibly irresponsibly so, about things like structural stability. Crowley merely says, glibly, “we can take care of anything that pops up. Just a snap, really." She’d have expected Ezra at least, with his fussiness and prim exactitude, to be more worried about practical concerns like whether the floors might collapse or the pipes explode, but he too seems unworried. 

So, it's all the stranger when Crowley suddenly says, “Might be a fire hazard. There’s no way this electrical wiring is up to code.” He looks pale, and unaccountably rattled. How very strange, especially since said wiring is actually pretty decent, for what it is; it's not grounded, but you can't expect perfection in these old, retrofitted houses. 

“I keep expecting Dagon to pop out from behind the water heater there,” says Crowley in an undertone to Ezra, “with an absolutely massive banker’s box of files.”

“Oh, I was just thinking it’s rather unpleasantly reminiscent of the Bastille, isn’t it, dear?” says Ezra. 

“Let's get out of here,” says Crowley. "I'll buy the crepes this time."

"Between you and me," she murmurs to Ezra as they're climbing back up the stairs after they've made clear that they are definitely not in the market for houses with damp, creepy Victorian basements. "I always hate going down into those. I always think there's going to be a demon down there or something."

***

The third house is a “cottage,” in design if not exactly in size, which is to say it's a two-story 17th century Tudor-style stone and brick building on the South Downs that’s far larger than a simple country cottage has any sense being. (To be fair, it's smaller than the rambling Victorian heap they saw yesterday. It also very definitely does not have a Hellish basement or a Heavenly view.) The sea is a short walk away along a winding, downhill path that's accessible through a gate at the back of the garden wall, and one can hear the slow, rhythmic splash of waves on quiet nights. The cottage looks unassuming, if charming, from the outside, but inside it hides a variety of quirky additions that have been made by various eccentric owners over the years, including a lush conservatory and a cozy library. 

“Oh,” sighs Ezra when they enter. “There's so much love in this place.”

The conservatory stretches along the entire back of the first floor. She can tell, even behind his sunglasses, that Crowley’s eyes are wide as they take in the glass-walled room, the green smell, the verdant and slightly overgrown plants. He strolls over to a lemon tree, and glares at it for some inexplicable reason. He mutters something under his breath. The leaves rustle a bit. Odd. She hadn’t felt a breeze before, and in any case they're indoors. Must be a draft, or something.

Beside her, Ezra tuts and says, “Oh, Crowley. Do be nice, dear” and reaches out a hand to pat the trunk of the tree. 

“Aren’t you a beautiful, strong thing!” he says softly, with a beatific smile. The odd rustling of leaves suddenly stops and there’s a sweet fragrance of lemon blossoms. Oh! The tree is flowering. She must have missed it earlier. She's almost certain lemon trees do not bloom in October, but perhaps things are different when they're grown indoors. 

The looks Crowley and Ezra are giving each other are the same, somehow. At once exasperated and fond. 

Upstairs, in the master bedroom, she catches them in an unguarded moment. The late afternoon sunlight is streaming through the windows, golden and a little hazy through the glass; it casts a warm light over the whitewashed walls and illuminates the little motes of dust that always seem to accumulate in empty rooms. Oddly, there appear to be a few small, downy feathers, some dark and some light, floating around as well. Crowley’s sunglasses are low on his face, and she catches, for a brief moment, a glimpse of gold. It must be a trick of the light. Ezra’s hand is on his cheek and he is pulling him in for a kiss, soft and sweet and so tender that she feels like she is intruding on a sacred and private intimacy. She turns away and makes her way quietly down the stairs. 

They rejoin her in the back yard, which is a bit wild at the moment, carpeted in acorns and fallen leaves, but spacious and well laid out. There is a small area paved with flagstones that would be perfect for a couple of comfortable chairs and a small table, and a stone bench to one side under a bower of wild roses which would be a perfect place to sit with a book in the afternoon sunshine. There are a number of tall, moss-covered, old oaks and yews at the periphery, and a couple of fruit trees that still have a few, late-season apples and pears hanging on them, but it’s open to the sky in the center.

Crowley looks up and says to Ezra, “You could see Alpha Centauri from here.” 

He must be mistaken, because, if she’s remembering her astronomy correctly, one cannot actually see Alpha Centauri from anywhere in the U.K. 

“Oh, look, Crowley! A koi pond! Do you remember that church where that whole kerfuffle with the Nazis and the books took place? It had one of these,” he muses. “It was quite the heartwarming story in London at the time. When the church was destroyed, all of the fish somehow survived. Such an unexpected joy in such a tragic year. It almost seemed... miraculous. Wasn’t one of mine though. I rather had my hands full in the 40’s.”

Crowley has a small, private smile on his face. His cheeks are a little pink. Ezra wears a matching smile, and, in the way they look at each other, it's clear they've found their home.

***

There’s somehow far less paperwork than usual involved with this sale, and no waiting period for approvals or inspections. It all goes extremely quickly, which is an estate agent's dream. All that's left is for them to sign their names on the last page: Ezra’s signature is a swooping and elegant cursive, and looks oddly like a single name rather than a first and a last, and Crowley’s is a bold, dark swirl that makes her a bit dizzy to look at for too long. 

She smiles and presents them with their keys and a bottle of Veuve Cliquot[2] to congratulate them on the purchase of their new home. Ezra beams at her as they leave and wishes her the very best of luck in the future. Her mind is drifting already to happy thoughts of all the things she likes best. 

***

The next morning, Nicola Rose wakes to the news that she’s been retained to sell a flat in Mayfair. The owner wishes to remain anonymous, which is fine if a bit sketchy. (But, honestly, what isn't in the London market these days?). The penthouse flat is modern and stylishly appointed, with an almost impossibly fantastic view of the London skyline. Everything is in perfect condition; possibly too perfect, as if nobody actually lives there[3]. All of the appliances are brand new, extremely fancy, and so modern that she can't even figure out how several of them turn on or plug in. There are, inexplicably, a plant mister and several empty flowerpots sitting next to the kitchen sink. It even has a highly secure built-in wall safe, which is a thing more and more wealthy buyers are looking for these days. The owner has...interesting...taste in interior decor, but it’ll appeal to the right buyer. (This is, after all, not even the first flat she's seen in London that comes with a throne.) She's been notified, however, that certain of the furnishings will not be included in the sale, including the incongruous eagle lectern, the rather Mona Lisa-esque sketch that conceals the safe, and a frankly pornographic statue prominently displayed in the front hallway. There’s an unfortunate water stain on the floor right inside one of the doorways, but it’s nothing a nice throw rug won’t cover up.

***

Meanwhile, in front of a cottage in a quaint little village on the South Downs, an Angel and Demon get out of the Bentley, walk hand in hand up the front path, and enter the home that they will make together. 

* * *

[1]In the months and years that follow, the opening hours will go from "extremely limited but sort of on a weekly schedule" to "maybe once every two weeks if you're really lucky, but with no rhyme or reason whatsoever." One computer-savvy bibliophile claims that he's written predictive algorithms that correlate Fell's opening hours with a reasonable degree of confidence to days when the Ritz Dining Room receives last minute cancellations and/or bookings. Other people think that opening nights of Shakespeare's comedies and closing nights of his tragedies in the West End might be associated with a higher than normal (read: non-zero) chance of the bookshop actually being open. Whatever the case, everyone agrees that it would take a miracle or an Act of God to be able to actually purchase a book.return to text

[2]Although, come to think of it, that looks like a bottle of Dom Perignon in Ezra's hand, which she would never have bought for a client, no matter how good the sale was or how much she liked them. She's not made of money.return to text

[3]Because nobody did. Crowley – and all his plants – had moved into the flat above Aziraphale's bookshop shortly after Armageddon didn't happen. He had basically been using his old flat as a very bizarre art gallery until they had more room for such things.return to text

**Author's Note:**

> I do not actually know much about buying real estate in the UK; any mistakes and American-specific terms are entirely my fault.
> 
> The first house that they visit is based on the [Balancing Barn](https://www.archdaily.com/81757/balancing-barn-mvrdv).
> 
> The bit about the koi pond is a reference to my other fic, ["Climb"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20043322).


End file.
